


To Be Continued

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Arrow - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In absolutely no particular order, a collection of reader / Oliver Queen one shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Be Continued

The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the foundry. Again and again, repeating until you swear it's going to drive you crazy… or deaf. Sure, you could put in earplugs, drown out pretty much all of the noise a certain vigilante is creating, but then you wouldn't hear the one sound that sends shivers down your spine. The same sound that sends a million and one images loose in your mind, makes your toes curl, makes your body tighten.

Oliver Queen grunts every time the bar strikes home on the salmon ladder. And oh, what a glorious sound it is.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

Even if you were to put in the ear plugs, leaving yourself partially deaf, you would still be distracted by his workout. Your desk had been set up directly behind the ladder, and there have been many times you thought he did it on purpose.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

He uses his legs for momentum. At times, crossing them at the ankles, his knees bent. Other times, they hang loose, making his body look impossibly long. That's what he's doing right now. Kicking his legs out to gain the momentum needed to push the bar up and over the next rung.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

It doesn't help he's not wearing a shirt. You become hyper aware of every bead of sweat that rolls down his neck, curving along the contours of his shoulder blades, and along the bend of his lower back; dampening the elastic band of his black boxer briefs.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

Corded muscles ripple under a thin layer of skin with every movement. Legs kick out before they swing back, the bar is pushed up, and for just a moment, he's weightless.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

Where others would make the workout look awkward, he manages to make it look graceful, as if he's been doing it his whole life. It's hypnotic to watch.

_CLANG_

_GRUNT_

All metallic sounds fade away, leaving only the sight, and smell of sweat-slicked skin, and the sound of Oliver grunting to send your already overstimulated mind into overdrive.

"Hey, are you alright?"

You jump at the sound of his breathy voice next to you. "Y – yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sitting down on the edge of your desk, he drags a towel over his face before tossing it into a basket. "You sure? You're all flush."

"Oliver, I'm fine, really." Your already racing heart beats impossibly fast when the large fan at the other end of the room makes its pass. You can smell the damp heat of his skin, and it's downright intoxicating.

He narrows his eyes when you suck in a breath. "You should go home, get some rest. The results won't come any faster just because you're staring at the screen."

"But you're going on patrol." As if that's all that needs to be said for him to see that you don't just want to stay, you  _need_  to. You need to be in the foundry, giving him the information needed to take down the bad guy, waiting for him to safely return to you.

"And Diggle's coming with me." A soft chuckle fills the space between you, brushing against your skin like silk.

You push up from your chair slowly, chewing on your bottom lip because you know it drives him crazy. "And I'm not going anywhere, Oliver."

His pupils dilate as they flick to your mouth. "You've been down here longer than I have."

You step between his legs, nudging his knees apart with your thighs, dropping your voice to a sultry tone used only in the bedroom. "You need me here."

His hands are on your hips, squeezing, kneading. Feeling the heat of them through the black skirt, your skin itches in a way only his touch will soothe. Your name falls huskily from his lips.

"You want me here." After tugging the pen from your hair, sending it waves down your back, you drop your hands to the crook of his elbows, and drag them along his defined biceps, over his shoulders, stopping only when you reach the back of his neck. His skin is damp, hot to the touch. His freshly cut hair bites into your fingertips as you scrape your nails through it.

You can feel his body react as he pulls you closer, his hands firmly cupping your backside, and a growl bubbling in his chest as his eyes darken.

"Don't you?"

He doesn't answer you verbally.

One of his hands is suddenly at the base of your neck, your hair tangled in his long fingers. With a sharp intake of air, his mouth is on yours, demanding, and possessive. You whimper when his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, begging for access which you can't bring yourself to ever deny.

He nips at your bottom lip just as someone clears their throat.

"Sorry to interrupt."

Your face flushes with embarrassment. If you could curl into a ball and disappear, you would.

"Dig." Oliver slides his hands from your hair, and out from under your shirt where he was just about to palm your breast.

John's voice is lined with amusement. "I could come back later."

You clear your throat as you step back from Oliver, straightening your shirt. The heat begins to creep down your neck, and you know if you were to look at John, you'd want to crawl into a hole even more than you already do.

Oliver gives a quick shake of his head as he stands tall. "No, it's tonight, or not at all. I'll be ready in five."

Your attention is focused on the monitors as Oliver disappears, clothing himself in green leather. Once you're sure that the blush has left your face, you turn to face John. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He slides into his shoulder holster, fastening the buckles without looking at them. He's done this way too many times.

Your hands move nervously, polished nails catch the florescent lights. "Thanks."

John shoots you a wink just as Oliver emerges. Clad in green leather, he strides over to the cabinet housing his weapon of choice.

You hold out your hands, a blue tooth device lay in each palm. "Constant contact, understand?"

John inserts the device into his ear before pressing a kiss to your forehead, his other hand squeezing your shoulder gently. "You got it."

Once the quiver is slid into place, it's Oliver's turn. Glove clad fingers brush against your palm as he removes the device. Deep blue eyes surrounded by a green mask drill into yours.

"Come back in one piece."

"I'll do my best." He could never promise something like that. They could plan everything out, have a back-up plan, even a back-up to the back-up, but there would always be the unexpected; that one element that could blow this whole operation apart.

You keep your eyes locked on his as you reach around his neck and pull the green hood over his head. "John, you both come back in one piece."

The man at the bottom of the stairs chuckles. "Yes, ma'am."

You trace a finger along his jaw, his stubble tickling your fingertip. His hand falls to the small of your back when you push up to your toes, and give him the briefest of kisses. "To be continued."


	2. Coming Home

Blood is a lot harder to wash off than people think. It gets into every crack, every crevice of your skin, under your nails, and in your hair. It soaks into every fiber of clothing, especially cotton, drying almost unnaturally fast. Unless there's a lot of it, like there is right now.

Your hands are practically swimming in the warm, red liquid. It makes your already shaking fingers slick, dropping the tools needed to help suture up his wound.

John clenches his jaw in frustration as the clamp clatters loudly on the concrete floor of the foundry. "Why don't you call Roy."

Your eyes sting as tears spring to life. You give a shake of your head, gritting your teeth. "He's on a date with Thea tonight. I promised him one night, John."

The man across from you pulls in a deep breath, leveling you with a serious narrowing of his eyes. "I'm going to need you to stop dropping everything. He's already lost a lot of blood, and if I don't get the bullet out -"

"Don't say it."

"He'll die."

You swallow against the sob as it claws up your throat. You can't lose him. You stare at your hands, willing them to stop shaking. Once the tremors stop, you give John a curt nod. "Let's do this."

"That's our girl."

John moves quickly, time spent in the field is on his side. He's calm and collected, despite the fact his best friend had been shot saving his life. Everything he asks for, you do without hesitation, without question; anything to save the love of your life.

When John removes the bullet with a small grunt, you breathe out a sigh of relief. The hardest part is over, now it's time to close the wound. You hold Oliver's hand while John passes the thread through his skin, pulling the would closed with a firm tug.

Small streaks of blood are left in the wake of your thumb as it sweeps over the rise and fall of his knuckles. The man in front of you wavers as you give in, letting the tears finally form and fall, breaking past the weak defense of your eyelashes.

He looks so different when he's not brooding or carrying the weight of Queen Consolidated or saving the city he loves or giving some heroic speech. He looks so much younger, so... vulnerable.

John rests a hand on your shoulder. "You should clean up."

You look up into warm, chocolate eyes, and feel yourself start to fall apart. "John."

"Go. I'll stay with him."

You feel like you just set the record for the world's fastest shower. John isn't even done mopping up the blood when you rush into the room. The floor is cold against your bare feet, but you being slightly uncomfortable doesn't matter.

John jumps slightly when you clear your throat. "Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize." He disappears around the corner, pushing the bloody water filled bucket out of the room.

Oliver is lying on a steel table wearing only his green leather boots and pants. His chest and stomach are decorated with numerous scars and bruises, each bruise a variance of colors. The worst one of them all is the most recent. The skin around the bullet wound is red, purple, and downright angry looking.

John is quiet as he enters the room, pulling off his bloody shirt as he walks. He tosses it into the garbage before grabbing a spare from a cabinet.

You about collapse into the chair that appears behind you. John squeezes your shoulder as he hands you a wet towel for the blood on Oliver's hand. You start wiping at the dried substance as John takes a seat across from you. His eyes dart from his friend to the machine that's monitoring every vital important to sustain life.

Reaching up, you run a hand through Oliver's hair. It was pushed up in every direction. Partly from the fact he ran his hand through it whenever he was anxious, but mostly from the hood, and the mask. Despite the spikes, it was feather soft.

"John, tell me what happened."

He shifted in his seat. "You heard what happened."

It's true, you had heard everything as it went down. You even hacked into a satellite, but there was no visual of how it  _actually_  went down.

_"Let him go." Oliver's voice isn't his own. It's altered by the device he wears against the strap of his quiver._

_The villain of the week laughs, harsh and cold. "Your tough guy act doesn't scare me."_

_"It's not an act. I'll say it one more time. Let. Him. Go."_

_"Oliver, just put an arrow in his chest, and get John." You try to keep your voice calm, but the fact is you feel like your heart has jumped into your throat. "There are more coming."_

_"You're going to need more than an arrow to bring me down!"_

_Oliver's hand flexes on the bow, the other itches to nock an arrow and send it flying through the air. "Last chance!"_

_"NO! This is_ your _last chance. Either you leave of your own accord or you're carried out on a stretcher."_

_"Not without him!"_

_John's grunt echoes in your ear. "Oliver, go."_

_"Save yourself." His voice is condescending, dripping with sarcasm as he laughs maniacally. "Pitiful."_

_"That's it, I'm calling Lance."_

_He speaks your name through gritted teeth. "I can handle this."_

_"No, Oliver, you can't. There are at least 20 more guys headed your way. I can't stop them." God knows how you had tried. Even though you had hacked into the traffic control database, making all the lights red, doing everything you could think of to hold them off, nothing worked; they were still advancing, and fast._

_He grinds out a curse. "I can't just leave."_

_"So don't. I... I know you took an oath with not killing, but it may be unavoidable right now. Do what you need to do." You rub your forefinger over the nail of your thumb nervously. You have never wanted to see what was going on until now._

_Oliver pulls out an arrow and has it nocked before anyone can blink. "Let. Him. Go!"_

_You hold your breath, hoping that things will go according to plan just this one time._

_"You think you're fast enough to put an arrow in my chest and avoid getting a bullet in yours"_

_Another curse falls from his lips. "Try me."_

_"Oliver -"_

_The gun shot is loud, louder than normal due to their surroundings._

_"OLIVER! Answer me. John? JOHN! Someone better answer me!"_

"There was a gunman we didn't see. He pulled the trigger when Oliver shot an arrow. It was a trap."

Your throat is thick, making it hard to swallow. "How did you get out?"

John drug a hand over his face. "When Max went down, I grabbed his... my gun and shot the gunman. I grabbed Oliver and hightailed it out of there."

"Just in time, too. Another 15 seconds and you wouldn't have." It's true. The backup Max had called for descended on the warehouse like a swarm of bees.

With tear-filled eyes, you meet John's gaze. "Thank you."

"I wasn't going to just leave him there."

You open your mouth to say something snarky, but Oliver stirs, groaning in discomfort as he tries to sit up. John is up and providing resistance to the injured man, gently pushing him down.

"Easy, Oliver."

His hand is like a vice on yours, squeezing hard enough that your knuckles crack. His eyes shoot open, pupils blown wide as he searches for you, panic etched in his face.

You lean over, running a hand through his hair as you press a kiss to his forehead. "It's ok. You're ok."

He finally relaxes under the weight of John's hands, closing his eyes as pain roars through his shoulder. After swallowing hard a few times, he finds his voice, gravelly and coarse. "John, are you..."

"I'm fine, man. I can't say the same about you."

The hand holding yours loosens only slightly. "How bad?"

You're surprised you have a voice to speak with. "Shot once in the shoulder, but it wasn't easy to get out. You lost a lot of blood."

Oliver blows out a breath. "Max?"

"He didn't make it."

His lips press together as he nods at John. As if reading Oliver's mind, you step back so you're not in the way. It's painful, but Oliver is sitting up, as much as possible. The machine elicits a long beep when the sensors are ripped away.

John silences the machine before coming to stand next to you. "You want me to hang around?"

With his head hanging, Oliver gives it a quick shake. He leans against his uninjured arm as he tests the extent of how far he can move the injured one before hissing through his teeth.

John gives you a firm side hug. "I can be here in under 2 minutes."

"I know, and thanks again."

You wait until John leaves, locking the door behind him before you stand in front of Oliver. Your hands fall to his knees, squeezing them none too gently. "You scared me." Your voice is raw from trying, and failing to keep your emotions in check.

He spreads his legs so you can move closer, looking at you through blonde eyelashes. "I'm sorry."

You close your eyes against the tears that form, hoping to keep them from falling. They spill anyway, only to be brushed away by long thumbs. When you open your eyes, Oliver is close enough that you can still smell the cinnamon gum he chewed before leaving. He has your face cupped in his hands, fingertips tangling in your hair.

You blow out a ragged breath as you lean into one of his hands, resting yours on his sides.

He kisses you gently when your eyes fall closed. With his forehead resting on yours, his voice drops to a whisper. "I'll always come home to you."


	3. I Swore I'd Protect You

With his mind suddenly clear of the Vertigo induced fog, he leaps over the terrace railing and onto the ground below, running toward the fallen form as fast as he can. The wind pushes back the green suede hood, but he doesn’t care if anyone sees his face. Keeping his identity a secret no longer matters. What does matter is that you had been struck down. Not by the hand of an enemy, unknown or not, but by him. His arrow had taken you down, flying into your chest with the speed and accuracy that would make any archer jealous.

 

John reaches your first, knees sliding in the damp grass as he drops down. His usually steady hands shake as he assesses the extent of your injury.

 

A rough cough tears out of you, pushing blood between your teeth and lips. The searing heat of pain spreads into your stomach.

 

Oliver’s bow hits the ground moments before his knees do. He slaps a gloved hand against his voice changer mid-sentence. “How bad is it, Digg?”

 

You drive your fingers into the wet earth, pushing mud and freshly clipped grass under your fingernails. Writhing on the ground does little to help the pain, but you can’t stop. Nor can you stop the low, pain-laced moan as it steadily builds.

 

Brown eyes full of worry meet Oliver’s. “It’s not good, man.”

 

Oliver grimaces. His lips push into a thin line as he grabs your hand out of the dirt. “Take her. I’ll be right behind you.”

 

You choke on a sob at the thought of him leaving you.

 

Seeing the confusion in your eyes, he squeezes your hand and bends down to plant a firm kiss on your forehead. “I can’t go in like this. I’ll change and be right behind you, ok?”

 

Your body shifts as John slides his arms under your knees and upper back, securing you to his chest. A cry of pain can’t be bitten back as he stands, pushing and pulling the arrow in all the wrong directions. Before you can tell Oliver it isn’t his fault, that you’re not mad at him, that you’ll be ok, John turns his back and jogs as gently as he can to his car. The last thing you see is Oliver pulling the hood over his head before he picks up the bow and disappears into the trees.

 

* * *

 

Two deep, very male voices pull at you, tugging you from your sleep.

 

“What’d Lance say about the arrow?”

 

“Nothing, man, there wasn’t an arrow for him to ask about.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He means he pulled it out.” Your voice is dry, cracked, and full of pain.

 

Since your eyes aren’t open yet, you hear the men cross the room before one of them covers your hand with theirs. You would know those callused fingers anywhere.

 

Oliver’s voice is thick with worry, lined with anger. “You pulled it out?”

 

John shifts his feet, shuffling them against the tiled floor. “I didn’t just yank it out. I cut it in half first.”

 

Forcing your eyes open, you reach for John’s hand, squeezing it as best you can considering the amount of pain killers that are currently in your system. Oliver’s worried brow and clenched jaw slowly comes into focus. As he moves to sit on the hospital bed, his eyes glaze over as they drop to your rising and falling chest.

 

You nudge your thumb against the palm of his hand. “He had to, Oliver. Otherwise, they would have taken the arrow and everything you have worked so hard to change would disappear.”

 

He groans in agreement, eyes still pinned to your chest.

 

John places your hand on the bed, careful not to rip out the IV. “Lyla called while you were in surgery, wanted to know when you woke up.”

 

You pull in a deep breath. The cool stream of oxygen hisses softly as it rushes out the clear tube under your nose. “Tell her she can stop by.”

 

John smiles before placing a kiss on the top of your head. He pulls the door behind him, giving the pair of you some privacy.

 

Even with his best friend gone, Oliver still won’t look at you. He’s wearing a haunted look of a man that took aim and shot the woman he loves. A man that could have killed her if the poison pumping through his veins hadn’t made his hand shake at the last minute. A man that hurt the woman he swore he’d die to protect.

 

You slide your hand from under his and rest it on his face, the stubble of his beard tickles your palm. “Come back to me.”

 

Blue eyes meet yours and it takes your breath away. He clenches his jaw as he leans into your touch. Your name brushes against your wrist as he kisses your pulse point. His voice is thick as he tries to speak around the massive lump in his throat. “I’m sorry.” His shoulders slump as his head drops.

 

Who knew two words could break your heart?

 

With a hand on the back of his neck, you pull him down until his forehead is within reach. You press kisses against his brow, hairline, and the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need to apologize.”

 

His breath is hot against your chest. His hands are on your thighs, fingers squeezing enough that it should hurt, and it probably will at a later point in time. “Yes, I do. I… I swore I’d protect you.”

 

Another kiss is dropped to his brow before you force him to look at you. “Oliver, you didn’t shoot me. Ok, so you did, but it wasn’t _you._ _You_ were dosed with a lethal injection of Vertigo. _You_ were seeing things. _You_ weren’t in control.”

 

“But I should have been.”

 

You sigh softly, scratching through the short hairs on the back of his neck. “You can’t do this to yourself. I’m ok, Oliver. I’m ok.”

 

He blows out a shuddering breath as his eyes fall closed.

 

You had seen Oliver Queen cry a total of three times before tonight. None of the other times made your heart ache like it did right now.

 

As much as it pains you, you shift in the bed, making room for the 6’ 1” man you love. He tries to object, to tell you he doesn’t want to hurt you anymore than he already has, but you don’t let him finish. After giving in to your not so silent request, he kicks off his shoes, and climbs under the thin hospital blankets.

 

The warmth of him is almost more comforting than the pain killers. You sigh contentedly as he wraps himself around you, as if he’s trying to pull you into him.

 

His fingers drag through your hair, gently combing out the snarls that are a side effect of lying on a surgery table and in a hospital bed. His heart hammers against your cheek and you briefly wonder how much more his ribcage can take.

 

You slip a hand under his shirt and run a finger over the outline of his Bratva tattoo, you don’t have to see it to know where it lies. “I really am ok, Oliver.”

 

His fingers freeze for a moment before continuing their journey through your hair. His only answer is a kiss to the top of your head and a heavy sigh. This isn’t going to be something he’ll get over easily.


	4. In Love With Oliver Queen

You are in love with Oliver Queen. Under normal circumstances, this shouldn't be a problem, right?

Wrong.

See, while you were falling head over heels in love with the billionaire playboy, he was busy pining away over someone else.

Yup. You are in love with a man that doesn't know you exist.

Scratch that.

He knows you exist. He sees you every day, talks to you multiple times throughout the day, even gives you his best flirty smile from time to time. He just doesn't  _know_  you.

Three months ago, for example.

Oliver is behind his desk at Queen Consolidated. He crosses his long legs, leaning back after John Diggle tells him something you can't hear. He drums his fingers against a stack of paperwork, pushing his lips into a thin line. Whatever it is, he's not happy.

You rap your knuckles gently on the glass door before stepping in, clearing your throat to announce your arrival. You know, just in case they didn't hear the knock.

"Excuse me, Mr. Queen." You watch as his stubbled jaw works in frustration. At you, or the news just delivered, you don't know.

Stormy eyes stop your feet from advancing further. "What is it Miss….?"

It's not like this is your first day on the job, or even your first week. You have been with Queen Consolidated for almost a year now.

You try not to let the disappointment show when you tell him your name. Again.

Oliver nods curtly, holding his hand out for the many files you have in your grip. The way he says your name holds the promise of danger, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Praying you don't trip over your own two high heeled feet, you cross the room, nodding to John as you pass. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Rochev expressed an urgency in acquiring your signature."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, but not before he rolls his eyes. "Of course she did. Fine, hand them over." He wiggles two fingers back and forth several times before you remember why you're there. Images of what those fingers could do to you makes you blush.

Your throat feels impossibly thick as you swallow, praying either of the men fail to notice the lovely shade of scarlet your neck is turning. Watching Oliver sign his name on several documents, you can't help but notice how well his hand holds the large, company pen, or the way the grey suit stretches over his shoulders, or the way he has loosened the silver tie ever so slightly…

Oliver clears his throat before saying your name.

You look at him with large eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Queen." Your hand brushes his as you grab the files, noticing the different textures. You don't peg Oliver as one that would do manual labor, let alone have calluses.

He chuckles gently before he stands, straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket. "If Ms. Rochev has any further… urgencies, please take a message."

You trail him and John from the room. "Y – you're leaving, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver doesn't turn around until they reach the elevator. "Is that a problem?" A dark blonde eyebrow arches as you shuffle the paperwork, struggling not to drop anything.

Biting your bottom lip, you shake your head. "No, Mr. Queen. It's just that –"

The elevator dings a heartbeat before the doors slide open. "If she's going to be mad at anyone, it'll be me, not you. She's all bark and no bite." With a wink, your boss disappears behind two elaborately designed elevator doors.

Then there is the time you think you have the office to yourself.

It's late. Later than late. Hell, it's the middle of the night, and you're all alone.

Oliver has left in a hurry. Again. Before some big meeting with Ms. Rochev. Again.

The way that woman screams and throws a very expensive looking vase across the room is almost comical. Almost.

Then she glares at you, breathing heavy and looking every bit like she can march across this room and punch you in the throat makes you turn on your heel and jog back to your desk, second guessing everything you had ever thought about her.

Hours pass and people trickle out of the office until finally you are all alone.

Only when you watch Ms. Rochev strut down the hall and disappear into the elevator do you relax, kicking out of your high heels and pulling the bobby pins from your hair.

You really should be following suit, but there is a big project, and Oliver had previously volunteered your services.

Groaning, you sit up. This presentation will not finish itself. Before you get started, you pop in your earbuds and select random on your iPod, turning the volume up as high as it will go. If you're going to do this project, you're going to rock your way to the finish line.

Hours pass before you stand. Your back screams in protest, but you stretch it out, jamming to the drum beats pounding through the earbuds. As the document prints, your favorite part of the song comes on. You grab the stapler and sing along, loudly.

It's not until you spin on the ball of your foot that you notice someone that wasn't there before.

Oliver is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one leg bent at the knee, his foot on the wall, and he's smiling.

You scream in surprise and yank the buds from your ears, fumbling to find the power button on the iPod that is tucked into the top of your floral skirt. "I – I – I'm sorry, Mr. Queen. I thought everyone had gone home for the evening." You know your hair is unruly, so you drive your fingers through it, desperately wishing you had a hair binder around your wrist.

His laugh washes over you like velvet. "No need to apologize."

The printer stops spitting out the paper, so you grab the warm sheets with shaking hands. There's one reason you're happy to have your hair down, it acts like a veil, hiding your flush face.

"Why are you here so late?"

"I just need to finish getting these ready for the presentation. Ms. Rochev wants to go over them first thing in the morning."

You hear him pull in a deep breath as he pushes away from the wall. "Ms. Rochev… what are we going to do about her?"

"Well, we could kill her." The words fall out before you can stop them. You clap a hand over your mouth as you look up. "Oh, God… I'm so sorry, Mr. Queen. I didn't… I mean…."

He's laughing again, and damn if that's not a sound you could go a day without hearing. He drops down, sitting on the edge of your desk, and says your name. The same promise of danger you hear every time he says it clings to the word like it belongs there, like he was meant to say it. "Considering you're my secretary, you're doing an awful lot of work for her."

Your painted nails drum against the papers. "You volunteered me."

"I did? Why would I subject you to something like that?" He smiles in a way you've only ever seen when Felicity is around.

It feels like someone let loose a herd of butterflies in your stomach. "I'm not sure, Mr. Queen. I've been meaning to ask you that very question."

He crosses his arms, the dark blue Henley shirt stretches tight across his shoulders and chest. "What else have you been meaning to ask me?"

Feeling bold, you sit up straight and square your shoulders. "Where do you go with Mr. Diggle and Miss Smoak?"

All humor leaves his features as he stands. "That is none of your concern."

Your stomach drops, the weight of it feels like you swallowed a boulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Queen."

He gives a shake of his head as he walks down the hall. "Goodnight." He disappears in the amber light of the elevator, but not before he casts one last glance your way.

He doesn't talk to you the next day.

Let's not forget about the time he saves your life.

It's dark.

Creepy dark.

Like, you can't see your hand when you hold it in front of your face, dark.

You were working late, again, when the power to Queen Consolidated had been cut, leaving you in complete darkness. Taking a look out the window, you see it's not just the building you're in, it's the entirety of Starling City.

The little hairs on the back of your neck stand, sending a shudder down your spine. Something about this feels very, very wrong. Your hand shakes as you reach for the phone, remembering just as you pick up the receiver that there is no power. Hissing out a curse, you blindly reach for the cellphone on the edge of your desk.

Three bars, more than enough to make a call.

The line rings twice before his voice answers. It's coated with anger. "What is it?"

You let out a heavy sigh of relief. "Mr. Queen, I'm sorry to call you directly."

"Where are you?"

"The office, sir."

Oliver grinds out a curse. You can imagine the way his eyes close as he hangs his head, or the way he is probably dragging a hand through his hair, or pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stay there."

Something in the way he says your name sets every nerve on edge. "Oliver, what's going on?" Up until now, you never called him by his first name. It's always sir, or Mr. Queen. That's the way you were told to address anyone in an executive position,  _especially_  the Queens.

He doesn't answer you right away. All you hear is the sound of the phone as it presses against fabric, more than likely his chest, and the echo of his voice as he relays a message, probably to John. You're fighting to keep your fear in check by the time he comes back.

"I'll be right there. Promise me you won't leave the building."

This is bad, really bad. You turn in your chair just as a building explodes. You give a shriek, covering your mouth with a shaking hand. "Oliver?"

His tone is urgent, more pressing than before. "Promise me!"

"Promise."

The call ends abruptly, cutting him off mid-curse.

Another building erupts in flames, sending glass and concrete spewing onto the streets below, onto the  _people_ below. You can't keep your emotions in check anymore. Hot tears spill down as the urge to flee fills you.

Several minutes pass agonizingly slow.

You can't take it anymore. After grabbing your jacket and purse, you jog down the hall and into the stairwell. You descend the stairs quickly, being just careful enough not to fall. The panic clawing at you builds until it hurts to breathe, until you don't think you can draw in another breath, until you feel like you're going to pass out.

The door in front of you opens, and the cool air you think is on the other side doesn't greet you. It's thick, smoky, and you cough roughly as it fills your already tight lungs.

People rush past you, screaming, crying out in pain and fear. Emergency vehicles wash the smoky street with their pulsing lights, the sirens pierce through the chaos, creating more of it.

Running in heels isn't something you're good at. You curse yourself for not taking them off earlier. Someone rushes past you and in their hurry, you're driven to the ground. Pain roars through you as the concrete bites into your skin, drives what little oxygen you do have from your lungs, as you smack your head against the brick wall.

Stars clutter your vision as you fight off wave after wave of nausea.

"Help me." You know the people running past can't hear you. You can hardly hear yourself.

You wince when you touch the back of your head, and you're about to find out why. Blood drips off your fingertips and it's then you feel it stream down the back of your neck. This is  _really_  bad.

Darkness starts to eat at your vision when you hear your name. It slices through all the chaos like a beacon.

A man in green appears in front of you and you're filled with confusion. He sounds so much like Oliver, but it can't be.

"I… I… c – can't b – b – breathe." You grip at the strap that lay across his chest as he pulls you off the ground, nails scrape along the seams where soft suede joins hard leather.

"Let's get you out of here."

It's Oliver's voice, but it's not. It's distorted, mechanical, but there's an undertone that you know all too well. There's only one way to find out if you're right. You look up into a shadowed face. You reach up with shaking hands and skim your fingers along his jaw.

"Oliver?"

He turns his head, trying to shadow his face further. "No."

You tighten your grip on his chin, refusing to let him turn away. You dip your head, barely seeing under the hood. You run a finger along the edge, pushing it back until you see a green mask surrounding a very familiar set of blue eyes.

He grinds his jaw, hands that are on your waist tighten until you gasp from the pinch of pain. "We need to talk."

"I'd say so."

Which leads up to the time he asks you out on a date.

He keeps stealing glances when he thinks no one is looking. And every time he does, you blush before dropping your eyes to the blinking cursor on your computer screen. A press release that should have been composed over an hour ago remains unwritten.

Just as the meeting lets out, John approaches your desk, clearing his throat when you don't say anything right away.

Your eyes dart to the new arrival. "Hello, Mr. Diggle."

"Call me John. The only Mr. Diggle I know of is my father."

"Yes, of course, John. Are you here on," your drop your voice to a whisper because people start to exit the conference room, "official business?"

Oliver nods, catching John's attention. "Not that I know of. I'm just here to pick Oliver up."

"Of course." You force your attention on the press release, but not before Oliver shoots you a wink as John pulls the door closed behind him.

With John hiding Oliver from your line of sight, you hammer out the press release regarding Moira Queen and it's not until after it's emailed to the head of communications, that you realize you're not alone.

The shadow of Oliver falls over your desk, his hands grip the edge, sliding his thumbs over the soft wood. "What are you doing tonight?"

Your heart stutters before kicking into overdrive. There's a pen dangling between your fingers, on the brink of falling out of your grip. "E – excuse me?"

He chuckles softly. "Tonight. What are you doing tonight?"

"I… nothing. Why?"

He drops his head as he grins. "You sure don't make this easy, do you?"

John clears his throat, failing to hide a smile of his own. "Mr. Queen."

Oliver lifts his head and when he looks at you, your stomach drops. "Go out with me. Tonight."

The pen falls from your already lax grip. You can't stop the smile as it takes control of your lips. "Yes."

That brings you to tonight.

A night you spend pacing, worrying, chewing on the end of an already short thumbnail while nervously running the other thumb back and forth over its neighbor. Felicity mirrors you, pacing alongside you, chewing on her own fingers. Two pairs of heels echoes through the foundry.

"Oliver should be back by now." Your voice shakes with the fear that is threatening to send you into a full blown panic attack.

A small hand lands on your shoulder. "He's ok." Felicity's voice is soft, understanding. She knows what it's like, having been through more scenarios than you care to think about.

"How do you know?"

She stops and turns you around. "Because I know Oliver. He said he'll be back."

You open your mouth to give a rebuttal, but you don't get the chance. The door at the top of the stairs slams shut and Oliver descends them a little slower than when he left. His name gets stuck in your throat as your vision blurs.

You don't know how you do it, but you wait until both his feet are off the bottom step before crossing the room. He meets you halfway. One arm falls to the small of your back while the other maintains an iron grip on his bow.

His mouth falls to your ear, your name falling from it in a ragged whisper. "It's ok."

You drag your nails over his back, catching in the different textures and seams before they stop on his shoulder blades. Closing your eyes you breathe him in, pulling in sweat, leather, and the cologne he applies every morning after his shower.

You swallow against the growing lump, forcing down the fear enough to talk. "You were gone a long time."

His hand tightens on your back, holding you against him for a moment longer. "There were a couple… snags along the way." As if to prove his point, he groans when your grip mirrors his, tightening until your fingertips ache.

You pull away and watch him try to mask the pain in his features. "How bad?" You drag your eyes over every inch of him until you notice he's putting all his weight onto his left foot.

He grimaces, clenching his jaw as you move to his side. "Twisted my knee. I'll be fine, just get the lidocaine."

You secure your arm around his waist as his falls around your shoulders. Felicity gets the lidocaine as you help Oliver to the table.

"You got it?" She holds out the syringe, ready to give the shot in case you can't.

The plastic syringe is oddly heavy in your palm as she hands it over once you nod. You wait until she gathers her jacket, until the door closes, until the lock is secured before standing in front of Oliver.

Seeing your hesitation, he wraps his hand around yours and pushes the needle into the outside of his knee. The plunger is pushed home, again, with the assistance of Oliver. His hand relaxes enough that you can pull the needle out and toss it into the trash.

His head falls down as the lidocaine numbs the pain. He rests his forehead against yours, sighing when you rest your hands on his face. You each blow out a slightly shuddering breath, yours more so than his.

"You scared me, Oliver."

He covers your hand with his still leather clad one. "I didn't mean to."

"Is it always going to be like this?"

"No."

"Can you promise me that?"

He scoffs gently. "No."

You roll your eyes. "Well, that's comforting."

When your bottom lip falls from the confines of your teeth, he closes the distance, covering your mouth with his. It isn't your first kiss, or your second, or even your fifth, but with him, every kiss feels like it  _is_  your first. The fullness of his bottom lip, the damn heat of his tongue, the sharp intake of breath he takes when you open your mouth to him; everything about it sends goosebumps over every inch of your body. You drag your fingers through his hair as you arch into him.

He moans as you part, running his thumb over your bottom lip. You watch as his pupils constrict slowly, and then he says three words. Three words you never thought you'd hear him say.

"I love you."

You are in love with Oliver Queen.

And Oliver Queen is in love with you.


	5. Brick and a Hard Place

You spin away from your attacker, arching your back as the blunt instrument he is using as a weapon slices through the air. Using the momentum of your spin, your weapon, Oliver’s bow, collides loudly with the one that had just narrowly missed your back. The force with which they hit makes your arm vibrate and you almost drop the bow.

Your attacker chuckles low in his throat. His accent is thick, slurring certain words, “thought you’d be bigger.”

“You know what they say, Brick, it’s not the size that counts.” Your voice isn’t your own thanks to the voice changer Oliver always wears. One lone green light blinks against the quiver strap on your chest.

“Don’t know who you’re talking to mate, but that’s not the way I heard it.” He grunts as he shoves you away.

His strength is almost unnerving as you stumble back. Using it to your advantage, you do a back handspring, bouncing gracefully on the balls of your feet as you land. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I think the people you talk to are just stroking your… ego.”

Brick growls, his face twists angrily as he lets out a scream of frustration and charges. You have a moment to enjoy yourself before spinning out of the way, smacking him on the butt with the tip of the bow.

His feet slide on the damp pavement as he stops. Throwing the large meat cleaver to the ground, he turns around. “My ego isn’t the only thing people stroke in this city. You’d do well to remember that.”

There’s an itch in your palm that will only be soothed by nocking an arrow. Your fingers twitch by your side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sneers as he rolls his neck, flexing the muscles in his shoulders. “Means I’m taking over.”

You scoff as you mentally prepare yourself for letting loose an arrow into someone. “Over my dead body, Brick.”

“I think that can be arranged.” For being a large man, he moves almost impossibly fast. 

Your adrenaline kicks in just as you reach over your shoulder for an arrow. Leather-clad fingers miss their destination and you have no choice but to use the bow as a weapon. Just as you swing the bow, aiming for Brick’s stomach, he barrels into you.

With a pain-filled grunt, the air is driven from your lungs by a huge shoulder. A meaty arm wraps around your waist as he picks you up. Your feet dangle in the air as the bow clatters to the ground. Bursts of light clutter your vision as you try to catch your breath. You struggle against the man that outweighs you by a good 100 pounds of pure muscle, but it’s no use. His grip is too tight, he’s too strong, and that’s when you realize just how much trouble you’re in.

You tap the Bluetooth device in your ear knowing Oliver will be the one to answer the call.

His voice is tight with anger, “where the hell are you?”

You manage to grind out a response between your teeth, “turn on my computer.”

With a hearty laugh, Brick throws you to the ground and any air you had managed to pull in is immediately driven out at the impact.

You bounce on your hip, breaking the fall with your elbow and shoulder in an attempt to protect your head. The cry that falls from you is so full of pain, you hardly recognize it as your own.

You hear the tapping of a keyboard as Oliver boots up the system that has been tracking your every move. He will also find all the files you had previously put together about Brick.

Your arms shake as you push off the ground as Brick advances like a predator going in for the kill. Your vision clouds as you stand, the man in front of you wavers, and you shake your head, raising your fists, ready to defend yourself.

His first punch is fueled by too much anger, it goes wide. You slap his fist to the side before jabbing him quick in the ribs. You might be small, but you have been training with Oliver and Diggle over the past 6 months. Brick grits his teeth before pulling his punch back, sending his elbow into your temple.

Your neck cracks in protest to the sudden movement and it feels like your brain is slow to catch up. You spin on your heels, stumbling before gathering what’s left of your wits. With another shake of your head you bounce on the balls of your feet like a boxer in the final round of a big fight.

Oliver roars in your ear, “I told you not to go after him!”

There’s blood oozing down the side of your face and your ribs burn with each breath. “And I didn’t listen.”

He grinds out a curse. “Get out of there.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?”

Brick rushes you again, his hits more precise now that he’s had a little time to study how you move. “Who you talking to, mate?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I can be there in two minutes.” He doesn’t wait for a response.

The click of the call ending is almost deafening but you don’t have time to dwell on it. Brick is on the move. You dive, somersaulting out of the path of an oncoming punch, sending the arrows from the quiver all over the ground. You’re not as steady as you thought you were.

A large hand grips the quiver strap, crushing the voice changer into nothing but a bunch of sparks. You wince as he pulls you off the ground, leaving your feet dangling in the air. You grab at his meat hook of a hand and try prying his fingers back.

“I’ve been bloody curious about who it is running around in a green leather get up.” His breath is hot on your face. The smell of coffee and stale cigar smoke hits you like a freight train.

It’s when he reaches for the hood that you really struggle, grunting and crying out in pain and frustration. The cool air fans over the back of your neck, blowing the hairs that have fallen from the high bun.

He laughs in disbelief when greeted with your very feminine features. Even with the green mask, it’s not hard to tell you’re a woman. “You’re a sodding girl!”

You gasp quietly as your entire body thrums with the searing white heat of pain. “Can’t get anything past you.”

“I can’t kill a girl,” he actually sounds disappointed.

A laugh bubbles in your throat before you swallow it. “What?”

“I may be a bad man, but I have morals.”

“Then put her down,” Oliver’s electronic voice echoes in the small space of the waterside docking bay.

Brick clenches his jaw as his eyes scan your surroundings. “Or you’ll what? Shoot me? Kill me? From what I hear, you’ve gone soft. I can see why.” His dark eyes are on you in a flash and there’s a different kind of flicker to them. The kind that promises dark and dangerous things.

You groan as you resume struggling. You know he can’t hold you like this for too long. He may be strong, but he isn’t Superman. He is going to have to let you go sooner or later. You prefer sooner.

“Don’t push me, Brick.” Oliver steps out of his hiding spot, an arrow nocked, ready to soar through the air.

With an arched brow, Brick surprises you by setting you on your feet, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He waits until Oliver lowers the bow before making his next move. The arrow is aimed at the ground when Brick picks you back up and throws you in the direction of the hooded vigilante. You hear Oliver curse loudly as you fly through the air. On instinct, you close your eyes and try to make your body go limp instead of rigid.

Oliver breaks your fall, literally. You slam into him, driving him to the ground beneath you. The bow and arrow in his left hand grind into the small of your back, sending a new wave of pain coursing through your body.

You catch the glint of something metallic in Brick’s right hand and give a warning cry as Oliver slides out from underneath you.

Oliver, seeing the same thing, lets loose an arrow just as the trigger is pulled. Both men are unscathed and staring down the barrel of a gun and a nocked arrow in a good old Mexican standoff.

Brick is the first to say something, “your move, Arrow.”

Your head is pounding so hard and fast it feels like someone turned on a jackhammer. Nausea rolls through you as you try to push off the ground, but only make it to your knees before falling back down with a smack of leather on wet concrete. Your voice is tired, thick, ragged, “let him go.”

Oliver’s hood twitches as he moves on instinct to look at you. Even through the mechanical distortion, you can hear the disbelief in his voice, “what?”

“Might want to listen to your girlfriend.”

The muscles in Oliver’s shoulders tighten as he steadies his aim. “Not another word out of you, Brick.”

You grit your teeth and steel your resolve to if not stand, at least get to your knees. “You can kill him another night.”

Brick chuckles as he un-cocks the gun. After holstering it, he takes a glance at his watch. “Sorry to cut this short, but I do have a meeting I cannot be late for.” He holds his hands up as he walks slowly backward.

Oliver’s jaw tightens as he watches one of the biggest mobsters Starling City has ever seen walk away. It’s only when a car door slams shut and an engine turns over that he un-nocks the arrow and slides it easily into the quiver. 

He’s on his knees, lays his arrow on the ground, and rests his hands on your face before you realize what is happening. “What were you thinking?”

You choke on a scoff as pain burns white hot in your chest. Placing a hand over his chest, you turn off his voice changer. “He was alone. For the first time in over a month, Brick was completely alone. I figured I could take him.”

The realization of your motive weighs heavy between you. “Your sister.”

Your chin quakes as tears prick your eyes. The loss of your sister squeezes your chest tighter than your bruised lungs and ribs.

His eyes fall closed as he shakes his head. “Why didn’t you call me or Digg?”

It’s getting harder to breath and the mind-numbing pain in the back of your head is starting to become not so mind-numbing. “I… I tried. You guys had that thing… you know… with Roy.”

You can’t see his whole face since it’s hidden in the shadow of his hood. All you can see are his lips as they press into a thin line as his jaw clenches. With a heavy sigh, he presses a hard kiss against your forehead before he stands. Gathering his bow, he secures it to his quiver before pulling you from the ground. 

“Come on, let’s get you home.”


End file.
